


Woodland red

by AdultDiversion



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Banter, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Ithilien, M/M, One Shot, Porn, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 18:04:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4446344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdultDiversion/pseuds/AdultDiversion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the Elven colony of Ithilien, post-RotK: Two old companions share a bottle of red wine. Among other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woodland red

Gimli had always been a lightweight.

And so, Legolas and Aragorn were – somewhat expectedly – given the chance to watch the sun set over Ithilien in relative peace. Legolas had discharged his staff, allowing an easy hush to enter the newly crafted hall. Gilded evening light sifted in through the glass dome above them. 

“The Woodland red was the tipping point,” Aragorn determined, reclining in his seat. “I’d wager even Thranduil would feel a slight effect after a glass or five of that vintage.”

“He should be so fortunate,” Legolas said, stretching languidly. “You underestimate my father, I fear.”

Aragorn gave a short laugh at that, and Legolas committed the sound to memory, the way he always did when Aragorn laughed. The rare occurrence always seemed like some unexpected gift, and Legolas intended to save each single one, to tuck them all away for bleak, future mornings. In the present, however, Aragorn was here, close enough to touch, and the warmth in Aragorn’s grey eyes did strange and pleasant things to him. 

Aragorn had left Minas Tirith to his steward for a few days. With Gimli, who cared little for ships and less for being on them, he had traveled the banks of the Anduín to visit Legolas’ new-founded colony of Sindarin elves, sea-bound for the West.

Now, Aragorn let his eyes trail along the slender supporting beams of the hall, with their carvings of growing and living things, before tipping his head back to study the domed glass ceiling above. “Your father would be pleased to see the efforts you’ve made here,” he said, mouth tilted open in a casual admiration. “I find it strange he lingers still in Mirkwood.”

“My father,” Legolas sighed, “will tarry in Mirkwood until I make him board the last ship leaving these shores. Possibly at arrow-point.”

Aragorn smiled softly.

“And you, friend? Would you tarry, if you could help it?”

Grey eyes watched Legolas from beneath a lightly furrowed brow, and Legolas felt his heart sink. The southern winds, carrying tangs of salt and sea, had an almost magnetic pull on him by now. The cries of seagulls seemed to plead with him, calling to leave Ithilien behind and make for the bay of Belfalas, where Sindarin shipwrights constructed their swift, sturdy vessels for the remaining Eldar’s passage into the West. Yet, all the while Legolas might canter towards the Bay, in spirit, he was every bit as grounded to Ithilien. And to Gondor. _Still._

Legolas held Aragorn’s eyes a heartbeat. “I would, friend,” he said solemnly, and cleared his throat. “For the Woodland red. Alas, I cannot bear the thought of parting with it.”

Aragorn laughed again, louder, this time. The sharp notes of it, the flash of teeth: “This hard talk of your father was all but a sinister ploy, I see. A design to divert me from your own weakness.” Below the smirk of Aragorn’s thin lips: the cleaved, softly bearded chin. Aragorn’s throat, Aragorn’s Adams apple, moving as he spoke.

Legolas swallowed a sip of the Woodland red and said, “Enough about my father for one night.”

And then he leaned forward, and kissed Aragorn.

It was soft and wet and unbearably hot. The taste of wine yielded to the taste of Aragorn’s lips.

“Are we--” Aragorn broke off, warily, mouth still close to Legolas’, “--quite private?”

“I would say--” Legolas began, pressing a kiss to Aragorn’s jaw, trailing his lips down Aragorn’s neck, sucking and biting gently along the ridge of a collarbone: “ _Yes,_ ” hissing against Aragorn’s shoulder. He felt the other man relaxing into the breath and lips against skin. Grey eyes slid halfway, lazily, shut, as Aragorn’s mouth parted easily for another, deeper kiss.

\---

During the Quest, the two of them would go off in search of some necessity or another – water, firewood. That is how it had begun: utterly unplanned. It just was. The first kiss had seemed restrained – chaste, almost – though his cock had throbbed with it, still. Legolas could just as easily remember their first time together: reaching for Aragorn, pushing him down, _hard_ , between heather and rock and himself, and that ridiculously blue sky above them. Legolas could conjure up the image, easily, studying the threads of sensations weaving the memory together like some lush tapestry, soft to the touch of his thoughts.

Then again, he rarely felt the need to look back. And therein lay the double edge of this thing: Aragorn felt like _always_ to him, as if they were always _this_ – though Legolas knew its temporality all too well. And so, he did whatever he could to commit each touch, each prolonged glance, each quick, indulgent fuck, to memory.

\---

Even so, he mused, it was surprisingly easy to blot out the impending fate, to push the thought aside and make space for skin, for sighs and the grey eyes that seemed to swallow him, flood-like. Aragorn rested his forehead to Legolas’, breathing slow and heavy and hot against his face. Calloused fingers stroked Legolas’ cheeks, travelling down to feel the planes of his chest, as Aragorn hummed softly into Legolas’ mouth, tongues smooth, sweet and weighted against each other.

Legolas leaned into the kiss, grasping Aragorn’s collar as he dragged them both to their feet, nudging Aragorn to rest his seat onto the table before them. Wrapping his arms around Aragorn’s torso, his hands stroked the soft fabric of a doublet, caressing the warm skin at the nape of Aragorn’s neck. With mock submission, he murmured against Aragorn’s lips:

“What does the King desire?”

Aragorn cupped his face, running the pads of his fingers along the high ridge of Legolas’ cheekbones. Grey eyes locked in Legolas’ blue, their foreheads pressed together, Aragorn dropped his voice to a whisper:

“I will fuck you so hard, you’ll forget your own name”. Equal parts feral and controlled, he continued: “Would you like that, Legolas Greenleaf?”

Legolas managed a sharp intake of breath, eyes wide and face flushed, before Aragorn’s lips forced themselves onto his. Tilting his mouth open, he caught hold of Aragorn’s lower lip between his teeth, sucking and biting down on the soft, swollen skin. The world span, suddenly and violently, before Legolas felt the table crashing against his back, slamming into the crown of his head. Blinking, he looked up to see Aragorn standing between his legs, Aragorn’s large fingers working intently at the lacing of Legolas’ breeches. He was going entirely too slow, Legolas decided, and growled in annoyance as he shoved Aragorn’s hands out of the away to undo himself, before halting, just as suddenly:

“We haven’t any--”

“Ah,” Aragorn sighed, smiling as he unlaced his own trousers with one hand, the other snaking underneath Legolas’s shirt to stroke a white stomach: “Technicalities. You do remember Helm’s Deep, still?”

“Yes,” Legolas said earnestly.

\---

Aragorn had barged into his sleeping cell on the night before the battle, tense and angry and more unnerved than Legolas had ever seen him. So Legolas had shoved Aragorn dow onto the low, hard bed, spat on his own fingers in lieu of oils, and fucked Aragorn soft and open and yielding, mouth swollen and back heaving with free, unrestrained breath that lasted for a few, blessed minutes, before Aragorn had tensed up again, re-dressed and left Legolas to himself.

Even then, as Legolas feared the two of them had shared a bed or even watched the sun set for the last time, he made sure to wrap the image of Aragorn – shuddering beneath him, that growling, familiar noise at the back of his throat – safely into the folds of his memory, just in case they were to live.

\---

“If you recall, there were no oils then, either,” Aragorn said, breaking his reverie. “You spat on your fingers.”

“That is absolutely vile. I did no such thing.”

“Ah, but you _did_ ,” Aragorn smirked, making no effort to hide that they both recognized the lie for what it was. “I seem to recall we got by, as it were.”

He reached inside Legolas’ breeches, grasping around the hard, smooth cock, as the other hand tugged the breeches off. Leaning over Legolas, he whispered, “Though, I am more refined than that. You are welcome”.

Legolas lifted his head to see Aragorn disappearing behind his thighs. And then, a warm, wet tongue slid against his perineum, before travelling down his cleft to probe at the tight opening there. Pads of fingers joined Aragorn’s tongue, stroking gently and determined, coaxing Legolas calm and ready and wet-slicked, dripping spit and aching for it.

“Do it. Get in me.”

Aragorn took himself in hand, lightly teasing the tip against Legolas’ opening, before pushing in.

\---

Prior to fucking Aragorn for the first time, Legolas had imagined the scene to boredom. The greatest rift between reality and his own imagination, he found, was his ability to actually fuck Aragorn proper, instead of simply bursting at the point of sheathing himself inside Aragorn. Legolas had recovered rather quickly from the shock of it, and decided that reality trumped any sordid dream.

\---

Legolas arched into it, now, grinding his hips against Aragorn in smooth, sleek rolls as Aragorn bent over him, reaching underneath Legolas to brace his hands around Legolas’ backside. Breath and speed and force increasing steadily, Aragorn fucked into Legolas as teeth grazed the white skin of Legolas’ throat, tongue sliding over sinew and flesh and hard lines of bone. Legolas felt the pressure of Aragorn’s cock, rubbing hot and slick against a point inside that wrenched his legs open, left him panting and chest heaving and desperate for it, desperate for Aragorn to notice his neglected cock, to touch it and stroke it, as Aragorn fucked him with long, smooth thrusts.

He was unable to restrain himself longer; he craved friction, craved touch, like air. Reaching down, he smoothed gentle fingertips with pre-cum, coating his cock in it. Before he had started to touch himself in earnest, Aragorn had pulled out to grind his cock against Legolas’ own. Curling his hand around them both, the sticky slick of their pre-cum let Legolas slide his hand up and down their throbbing cocks, working them against each other.

He was already senseless with it, with the feel of wet skin on skin, of Aragorn’s breath and teeth against his neck. The ringing of a voice – his, he realized - sounded in his ears: a low plea for _Estel, Estel, Estel, yes, God, I love this, I love the way you feel_ , as Aragorn clasped his hands around Legolas’ hips, desperately bucking into the touch. Legolas heard the beginning of a growl escaping Aragorn’s lips. It was after he snaked his free hand around Aragorn’s neck, extending it to cover his mouth, stifling Aragorn’s growl as he spilled over them, hot and wet, that Legolas relinquished the last of his own control. Fucking desperately up against Aragorn, furiously arching into the warm and slippery stickiness of it, he bit down on Aragorn’s shoulder, groan low and clipped and heaving, as he came and came and came.

\---

“I am Legolas Thranduilion,” he had said, lowering his head in a sign of respect to the young man. Why his father had bid him do this, he knew not – only that the king of Mirkwood had seemed even more aggravated than usual upon informing Legolas of their latest guest. Only when Legolas looked behind the young man, eyes following the rope leading from his hand to the pathetic, cowering creature at the end of it, had he understood. And then, he _really_ understood.

_Aragorn II, son of Arathorn. Chief of the Dunédain, heir to Isildur, and the rightful king of Gondor._

He had never forgotten since.

\---

“What is your name?” Aragorn whispered into his neck.

He caught his breath, pulling Aragorn down to rest on his shoulder. “Child, I have walked this world for centuries. Think not that you are the first to fuck me senseless.”

“Nor do I think I will be the last. Your greatest, though, I daresay.” Aragorn smiled, self-content, grey eyes flashing wickedly. Legolas smirked back, quiet, luxuriating in it, before the unintended weight of Aragorn’s words hit him: Sudden, like a tidal wave smashing onto the shore from whence it surged.

Aragorn was never intended to be his last. Aragorn was never intended for him, to begin with. Aragorn was male, and mortal, and wed. This, they knew.

 _This_ , whatever it was, was the very definition of temporary.

Legolas stared at the glass dome above them. A smidge of red remained in the dark sky, smeared across it like a bloodstain. “Utterly hopeless,” he said flatly.

And still, _this_ had already outlived many things. It outlived Gandalf the Grey, Boromir and a broken fellowship. It lived, through battlefields and fallen friends, and the end of an age that came crashing down: It lived, in spite of a marriage, in spite of distance and duty and borrowed time, hope whispered treacherously: still, it _lived_. And in stolen moments of bliss, Legolas would let himself believe in it, _hope, estel_ – float on top of it, until the current of reality woke him up by dragging him back down, under, filling his lungs. No matter what time they may have left – depending on circumstance or sheer luck – Aragorn was already lost to him.

“It’s _Estel_ , in fact,” Aragorn chided, eyes merry, until they met the blank gaze of Legolas’ blue. “Are you quite all right?”

“No,” Legolas told the glass dome, fighting the pathetic, blooming pressure at the back of his throat. His chest heaved; hurriedly, he coughed it down. Voice still thick, eyes still fixed above them, he said, “You are going to die, you know.”

Aragorn sighed. “Yes. That I will.” He shifted his weight, and rested his head on Legolas’ upper arm, looking up at him.

“In thirty, or sixty, or a hundred and twenty years, I _will_ die. And you will build your ship, and sail into the West, and love again. And until then, I will come back to you.” Aragorn looked at him, grey eyes filled with a strange light. 

“By the Gods," Legolas smirked. "You really are such a woman.” Using his free hand, he tilted Aragorn’s chin up, lips close to his.

The next kiss had none of that previous, carnal desperation or painful urgency: It was soft – hesitant, almost – lips meeting lightly, parting for each other like petals, reverent and warm and calm. It was worth forsaking the West for, Legolas decided, for now. It was worth staying and waiting for.

And Legolas could wait. He would remain in Ithilien, and rule the colony, and receive Aragorn when time allowed, and they would remain _this_ , whatever it was, for as long as they could. They would hunt and eat and kiss and sleep and run beside each other: they had the merits of stealth; they would manage to keep it secret, to keep it safe. He would continue to let Aragorn fuck him so hard he’d almost forget his own name, as long as Aragorn would let him remember the other names: _Estel, Elessar, Telcontar, Strider_. _Aragorn._

There was time. There was still time.

Legolas let out a long breath, content, wrapping protective arms around Aragorn’s shoulders. Proudly he announced, “I could do with another glass of Woodland red. Mayhaps I should fetch another bottle”.

“That is a horrible idea,” Aragorn murmured into Legolas’ shirt.

“Ah, so you doubt _my_ capacities now?” Legolas said.

“Well, frankly,” Aragorn coughed, “you are covered in seed. There is that.”

“Really,” Legolas mused, equal parts amused and disgusted. “I suppose _you_ will have to take your chances, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://munichmannequins.tumblr.com/)


End file.
